


And said that you were coming back to stay

by iriswallpaper



Series: Heartaches By The Number [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Caring John, Emotional Infidelity, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Morally Ambiguous Character, Season/Series 03, Sherlock recovering from gunshot, Tender Sex, Tenderness, They still haven't talked about Very Important Things, everyone is morally bankrupt, scenes in between/concurrent with S3 on-screen events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock continues to mend from his gunshot wound. John tends to Sherlock and they exist in the secure cocoon of Baker Street.  He's made a decision but there are still very important things they need to discuss. Since neither wants to break their tentative peace, things go unsaid. </p><p>Scene-based fics that are concurrent with events in S3. This is not an S3 fix-it fic.</p><p>HEED THE TAGS because everyone is morally bankrupt in this fic.</p><p>Title from the song "Heartaches by the Number."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And said that you were coming back to stay

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to MissDavis and Dulcimer Gecko for beta of this installment.

_Heartache number three was when you called me_  
_And said that you were coming back to stay_

.

.

John floated slowly toward consciousness with an erection pressed hot and hard against Sherlock’s cleft. When he achieved full lucidity, he started to scoot backward and whispered, “Sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was just…”

“It’s all right.” Sherlock gave a little shrug. “Stay. I’d reach back and hold you, but well…”

John pressed his forehead between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Yeah, the pain.” He’d been sleeping with his hand on Sherlock’s waist. He slid it down, pressed flat against Sherlock’s concave stomach. He burrowed his forehead against Sherlock’s too-prominent spine.

“Feels good, Sherlock murmured.

John felt Sherlock swallow twice. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock nearly whispered.

John’s hand stroked Sherlock’s stomach, a little lower on each downstroke, until the head of Sherlock’s stiff cock nudged the back of it. John reached down, cupping it, and scooted his hips forward to close the distance between them. 

“You’re warm,” John said. Sherlock was, hotter than he should be, sweat slicking his skin, making it easier for John to roll his hips and slide his erection in the crease between Sherlock’s buttocks. “Too warm.”

“The blanket. And you, behind me.”

John chose to believe Sherlock’s explanation because he wanted to. He circled Sherlock’s cock, loose-fisted, and stroked upward. Sherlock shivered.

Six weeks post-op, sleeping entwined every night, usually nude, and this was the first time they’d done more than share a good night kiss. The tentative peace between them felt too fragile for more. John had wanted. He’d wanted more, to hold Sherlock’s hand, to kiss him, rub his back, but existing in the twilight place, friend but not lover to Sherlock, not sure if he was married or unmarried, he’d been afraid to try. And, serving as Sherlock’s personal physician did come with certain ethical dilemmas when he wanted to bugger the patient. John realized that not only had he not had sex in six weeks, but he hadn’t even thought of masturbating. Somehow sex, even autostimulation, hadn’t had a place in his life when he was occupied with Sherlock’s recovery. And Sherlock - six and a half weeks, from the day he was shot and had his first surgery, six from the second - John was certain he hadn’t wanked in that time.

“Is this,” John murmured, kissing Sherlock’s nape. “Okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice was breathy. “I ... I can’t... It hurts to move. Can you just...”

“Yeah.” John pressed his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder, flat, and sucked. He moved his hips and hand in tandem, carefully stroking down when he pressed into Sherlock’s buttocks, up when he rocked back, slow, steady, careful not to jostle Sherlock. “Do you want me to …”

“Yes.” Sherlock answered quickly, then made several soft “ah” sounds. He panted and swallowed again. 

Kissing Sherlock’s neck, John continued the gentle rhythm, enjoying the closeness and the feeling of Sherlock in his arms. He shifted his hip without thinking, trying to get as close as possible, and Sherlock gave a pained gasp. “Sorry. Sherlock, are you…”

“I’m. It’s ok..” Sherlock sighed. “It’s hard not to move.”

Slowly, carefully, John worked Sherlock’s foreskin down, then back over his glans. Down, up, in time with the soft, careful undulations of his hips, enjoying the slide of his cock between Sherlock’s buttocks.

Sherlock gasped again, in pleasure this time, and came, shivering, abdominal muscles clenching. His breath caught in his throat as he pulsed over John’s hand. John continued his tender strokes, rutting softly against Sherlock, and Sherlock drew a breath and moaned, another wave spilling over John’s hand. It had been a long time for both of them.

Kissing his nape, shoulders, spine - as far as his mouth could reach, John continued to carefully stroke Sherlock through his orgasm. When Sherlock finally relaxed with his weight pressed back against him, John spread his sticky hand against Sherlock’s lower abdomen, holding him more firmly in place. He rolled his hips with slightly more force. “Is this okay?” 

“Yeah, yes.” Sherlock panted. “Just. Yes.”

John quickened his pace, carefully holding Sherlock, their sweat slicking his ruts. He came, digging his teeth into Sherlock’s shoulder, groaning, stomach hollowed, hips pressed desperately against Sherlock’s too-thin derriere. 

They settled to regain their breath, sweating against each other under the heavy blanket. Sherlock shifted but John pressed the hand still holding his lower abdomen. “Wait. Just, stay. A little bit.”

With a satisfied sigh, Sherlock settled back into John’s embrace. They drifted, hot and content, their chests rising and falling in unison. John could easily have fallen back asleep but he knew that Sherlock usually wanted to clean up quickly after sex, so he kissed Sherlock’s neck one last time. “We’d better get cleaned up.” 

Sherlock nodded.

John slipped out from under the covers. He padded naked around to Sherlock’s side of the bed, lifted the blanket and helped Sherlock to stand then laced their fingers together and led him into the bathroom. Sherlock leaned against the wall beside the bathtub, pale, shivering a little, while John turned on the shower. 

“Could I.” Sherlock nodded toward the tub. “Has it been long enough, is it healed enough, to have a bath?” 

John smiled fondly and flipped the bathtub stopper then turned the lever to shut off the shower spray. He adjusted the tap to make sure the water wasn’t too hot. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

John carefully removed the surgical tape and bandage from Sherlock’s torso. Really, he could have stopped dressing Sherlock’s wound days go, but they both seems to take comfort from the twice-daily routine. He examined the scars - they were more extensive than they’d been after Sherlock’s first surgery. The second surgery required larger incisions for the surgeon to repair the damage to Sherlock’s liver, veins and ribs. John ran his fingertip lightly over the still-angry-pink scars. 

“John,” Sherlock said thickly.

“Still hurt?”

Sherlock nodded. John winced. 

Sherlock was breathing hard. “Can you help me in?” 

John took Sherlock’s elbow and helped him into the tub then sat on the edge of the tub. He leaned over to fetch Sherlock’s shampoo and conditioner. He wet a flannel in the water and squeezed it over Sherlock’s hair, over and over, until it was streaming. Carefully, trying not to pull, John washed Sherlock’s hair, then wrung the flannel over it to rinse. He squeezed a handful of conditioner and worked it through the wet curls then used his fingers to comb out tangles. Leaving the conditioner to work, John washed Sherlock’s face with the flannel, tenderly caressing every plane and hollow.

Sherlock sighed. 

John soaped the flannel and continued to wash Sherlock’s shoulders, his back as far as he could reach, his torso, his legs and groin. Sherlock relaxed and let John minister to him. They remained silent. When he was done, John helped Sherlock sit up so he could rinse his hair a final time then settled him against the back of the tub and added a little more hot water. John wiped off with the wet flannel then hooked a towel around his hips. “Enjoy your bath. I’ll go start coffee.”

He started the coffeemaker and stood beside it to watch the stream of hot liquid fill the carafe. John felt like he’d made a decision - or his body had made it for him. He felt more focused than he had in the past six weeks. They'd been cocooned, hidden away from the world and insulated in their own reality since Sherlock's homecoming. John assumed Mycroft had taken care of getting him a leave from the clinic. He hadn't called, and no one from the clinic had contacted him, but funds appeared in his bank account every two weeks. For all he knew, Mycroft was paying him his usual salary to take care of Sherlock round the clock. He didn't much care either way. He was quite content to retreat from the world and let things drift. John shook himself out of his reverie when the carafe was full. He prepared two mugs and headed back to the bathroom to check on his patient-turned-lover.

Sherlock appeared to be asleep when John entered the bathroom . He sat both coffee migsvon the floor beside the tub and settled himself once again on the edge. He reached out and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. “Hey,” John said when Sherlock opened his eyes. “Mind palace?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. John noticed how sunken his eyes were in the sockets. Sherlock’s face had gone from lean to gaunt in the weeks since his gunshot wound and subsequent surgeries. John silently resolved to coax him to eat more often as he bent to kiss Sherlock’s razor-sharp cheekbone then his damp temple. “Ready to get out?”

Sherlock sighed and gripped the side of the tub. John realized just how tricky it was going to be to get him out. With shattered ribs and abdominal incisions still healing, Sherlock would not be able to use his core to rise up from the tub, and the tub was too small for him to roll over on his hands and knees. Sherlock seemed to realize it at the same time and looked at John with alarm in his eyes.

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.”

John smiled crookedly. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, smartest man in England. Surely you can figure a way out of our bathtub.”

Sherlock’s eyes slid half closed. “Ours.”

“Hmm?”

“You said our bathtub. Ours.”

John smiled softly. “Well, isn’t it?” He covered Sherlock’s hand that gripped the side of the tub and squeezed.

Sherlock hummed contentedly. “Then I’d better get out of our bathtub before the water gets much colder. Didn’t they teach you anything about lifting patients in medical school?”

“They taught us to call a nurse for things like that.” John lifted an eyebrow and grinned sardonically.

Sherlock started to laugh then gasped. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts,” he wheezed.

John slid a hand down Sherlock’s back and helped him sit forward. “If it hurts anyway, let’s go ahead and get you out.”

With grunts on behalf of the doctor and gasps on the part of the patient, John was able to maneuver Sherlock out of the tub. It left Sherlock left shaky and pale and leaning heavily on John. John wrapped him in a towel and trundled him into bed, hair still streaming. He discarded Sherlock’s towel on the floor, then his own, and climbed in beside Sherlock. He pulled up the covers and tucked them carefully around Sherlock then settled back with Sherlock firmly grasped to his chest. They lay quietly for a while before Sherlock said, so low John almost missed the words, “Did you mean it?”

John knew to what Sherlock referred - his reference to ‘our bathtub’ earlier. He also knew what Sherlock was really asking: what does ‘our’ mean, how long will ‘our’ last, will you stay, are you going back to her, and so much more. John’s eyes misted at hearing such a tentative tone from Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was supposed to be cutting, and rude, and sure, and as unchanging as granite. 

He licked his lips before answering. “Yeah, I mean it.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head where curls were still matted down with water. “I’m not going anywhere.”


End file.
